


People Against Us

by sinsense



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinsense/pseuds/sinsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It made it fun to to know there were 20,000 people against us." - Jack Johnson.</p><p>There's Sid, there's Jack, and there's the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Against Us

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks 1) to wearemany, for basically getting this story off the ground, and 2) to algernon_mouse, who flipped my sentences and made something like an ending happen. [Edit: and thanks to svmadelyn, who put this whole fantastic thing together.]
> 
> The underage tag is for sex between a 17 year old and an 18 year old. Message me or comment if you'd like any additional information before reading. Criticism welcome.

**1**

On the second day of tryouts, Jack checks Sidney Crosby into the boards. Crosby goes ass over teakettle, and Jack gets the puck over to his teammate. 

As soon as he's up, Crosby tries to trip him.

The next time he has the chance, Jack skates up behind Crosby and says, "Are you kidding me?" 

"Fuck you," Crosby mutters.

Jack snorts. "Dick move," he says, and skates away again.

Jack takes a run at Crosby on the next play. Tactically it's not the smartest thing, but it feels good to barrel after Crosby and send him into the boards again. On the play after that, Crosby rams into Jack at crotch height, and they go down in a tangle. They chase each other back and forth on the ice, the competitiveness Jack felt during practice turned up even higher. Crosby hisses and spits at him the entire time.

At the very end of the scrimmage, Jack takes a header to stop Crosby's shot on the goal. He throws his arms up in the air afterwards, of course, because it was fucking awesome. After his celly, Crosby calls him a butthead.

"Wow," Jack says, after the scrimmage is over. He eases closer to Crosby and pushes at the back of one calf with his stick. "'Butthead?' Are you going to call me a poopyface next time?"

"Shut up," Crosby says. 

"Telling me to go fuck myself, that wasn't bad," Jack says. He leans his chin on the knob of his stick. Crosby keeps staring at the coaches, like they're doing anything more interesting than talking about some other guy's shitty skating. "'Asshole,'" Jack continues, "now that's a classic. But 'butthead,' that's just fifth grade." 

Crosby shushes him again, but Jack ignores him for long enough to say, "That last shot was pretty sweet. Too bad I blocked it, huh?"

He lets Crosby stew on that one, counting the seconds until he turns and says, "You had to throw yourself on the ice for it. You were way out of position."

"Still blocked it," Jack says, grinning.

Crosby stares at him. His face is set at first, but Jack just keeps grinning at him, and he seems to get more and more confused. After a minute, he finally says, "My name's Sidney." 

Jack pointedly does not say _I know._ "Hi Sidney, I'm Jack."

"Hi Jack," Sidney says. "We should be paying attention."

"You weren't paying attention?" Jack asks, mock-astonished. 

Sidney makes a face at him, but Jack can tell he's trying not to laugh.

After Coach Ward wraps up, Sidney catches Jack's elbow. "The stuff I said, before. Guys have-- sometimes guys play dirty against me."

"I wasn't," Jack says. "I mean, I was trying to kick your ass, don't get me wrong."

Sidney scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, smiling. "I can get pissed about that stuff, sometimes," he says. 

"Yeah, you're kind of a jerk on the ice," Jack says.

"What? You're the jerk!" Sid says, hilariously affronted. "You looked like a crazy person, coming after me. I didn't even have the puck that third time!" 

"Yes you did," Jack says. He steps off of the ice. Sid crowds up behind him, their shoulderpads banging off of one another as they waddle forward. "You had the puck, you just dished it off when you saw me coming." 

"Shut up!" Sidney squawks. He shoves at Jack. Jack reaches back, gets his hand on Sidney's head, and pulls Sidney's face into his armpit. Sidney flails, nearly hitting one of the guys walking past them in the tunnel. 

"Sorry about that," Jack tells the other guy. Sidney makes a wildly annoyed noise and punches Jack in the side. 

When Jack finally deigns to let him go, Sidney's face is bright red. "You're a dick," he says.

"I think you mean 'poopyface.'"

And just like that, Sidney bursts into giggles. His laugh is _terrible_ ; it sounds like someone's shaking a tropical bird. "Poopyface!" Sidney squawks. 

"You're a weird kid," Jack tells Sidney, but he's laughing in spite of himself. "C'mon, move your ass, you smell like a dead horse." 

In the locker room, Sidney squeezes in next to Jack on the bench. Jack looks over, surprised, but Sidney doesn't look like he thinks anything's out of the ordinary. He bends down to unlace his skates and asks, "Have you been practicing your wrist shot?"

Jack blinks at him. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, could you tell?" 

"It's pretty good," Sidney says. 

"Thanks."

Apparently that's all the invitation Sidney needs. He proceeds to tell Jack about all of the strengths and weaknesses of Jack's game while they're stripping off their gear. It's a really good breakdown, actually. Jack finds himself nodding along. Sidney is grinning at him, too, like he's certain that he's doing something nice for Jack.

When Jack gets up to go to the showers, Sidney follows behind him. He's moved on to criticizing his own game, which is even more interesting than his breakdown of Jack's. 

Jack expects that Sidney will stop talking to him while they're showering, but he talks louder. When Jack gets out of the shower, Sidney's waiting, shifting his weight from foot to foot and holding his towel closed at his hip.

It should freak Jack out, but it doesn't. Some of it is that Sidney's really fucking good at hockey, which gets a guy a good ways in Jack's book. Most of it, though, is that Sidney seems oblivious. He's shooting the other guys slightly cautious looks, and he seems fidgety, but not enough to make him leave. He's waiting for Jack outside of the shower because it's just that important to talk about weight routines. It probably hasn't even occurred to him that he should go put his underwear on first.

"So, um," Sidney says.

"So," Jack says. "What kind of tricep work are you doing?" 

That conversation gets them back out into the locker room; they get dressed while Sidney tells Jack about the rec room back at his house in Nova Scotia.

Sidney stops talking abruptly at the doorway of the locker room. "Okay," he says, after a beat. "Right. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Where are you off to?" Jack asks, bemused.

"I live here. I'm a boarder," Sidney says.

"Oh, cool," Jack says. "The dorms here are supposed to be great."

"Yeah," Sidney says. He shifts his bag on his shoulder. "Great." 

Sidney doesn't look like he likes the dorms that much at all. And, well-- Jack's mom probably won't mind. Jack makes a split decision and says, "You want to come back to my house for dinner?"

"Yes," Sidney says, quickly. Then he adds, "If it's okay with your parents," like he's remembered he should have manners.

"It'll be okay. Let's go."

Jack's mom does roll her eyes, but she signs Sidney out, and she calls his dad to tell him to grill extra hamburgers for Sidney.

Sidney ends up wolfing down an entire batch of cookies along with his burgers, and he nearly pukes while goofing off after dinner. He's awkwardly polite with Jack's parents, but he's pretty good with Kenny. It's actually an awesome night.

"Next time we can stay late to work on your wrist shot some more," Sid says, when he's leaving. "And you need to anticipate the breakdown, I have some drills for that."

"Okay," Jack says. "And you can come over for dinner again, maybe." Sid grins, huge, and bumps Jack's shoulder before he follows Jack's mom out the door.

After Jack's mom has gotten back from driving Sidney back to Shattuck, she ruffles Jack's hair. "He's a funny kid," she says.

"He's all right, for a Canadian," Jack says. His mom laughs and ruffles his hair again.

\---

After that, it becomes routine. They flatten each other in practice, stay late to get some extra time on the ice, talk about hockey, and then go to Jack's house for dinner and homework. For their first away game they sit together on the bus, and then that's a routine. Sid asks him to hang out on the weekend, and then that's a routine, too. By the middle of the season, they're pretty inseparable. 

When it comes down to it, Sid's a good guy. He can be irritating at practice -- he can be a jackass on the ice, and the kid pots goals like he wants to make them all look bad -- but he's easy to talk to. He and Jack speak the same language. Sid likes shitty television and candy and doesn't obsess about girls like the other guys do. More importantly, when his parents or the other guys are fed up with talking about hockey, Sid is still game.

"Don't you ever get sick of me?" Jack asks Sid once. It's near the end of the season, and they're both exhausted, trying to plow their way through Chemistry homework after a game that went into overtime. Jack probably wouldn't have said it, otherwise. 

Sid says, "Nope, never." After a beat, he looks up, suddenly doubtful. "You need me to stop hanging out with you for a while?"

"Nope," Jack says back. Sid looks delighted, and Jack can't help but grin.

So the routine is pretty great. It's a really good year, even outside of the championship. 

\---

Their European History teacher, Mr. Carpentier, is also the JV Boys’ baseball coach. Jack’s always been piss-poor at ball, but he lets Sid con him into giving it a shot anyway. 

"Just for fun," Sid says. 

Jack rolls his eyes. 

They do all right at taking it easy, though, most of the time. This isn’t their sport. At least, that’s what Jack keeps telling himself anyway. 

The only real bump in the road comes in April, near the end of the season.

It's a hot day for April. The sun's too bright, and it's muggier than it should be. There were a lot of dropped balls during the warm-up, but they're winning, thanks to a couple of good hits and Sid's home run. They're not playing well, though. The other team's just playing worse. 

It's the bottom of the seventh inning. Jack's zoned out. On his right, Mitchell is chewing gum with his mouth open. Sid is sitting on his left, getting himself pumped up to go to bat. Mr. Carp calls Sid up, and Sid opens his eyes. 

"Go get 'em," Jack says lazily. 

Up on the mound, the pitcher looks a little pissy. It doesn't look serious, though, so Jack isn't expecting the first pitch to nearly graze Sid's chin. Sid jerks out of the way, huffs, and turns to look at Carp. Carp shakes his head. Sid turns back to the plate, frowning, and gets back into his stance.

The next pitch hits Sid right in the helmet. 

"What was that?" Jack yells, starting up off of the bench. Coach Carp gives him a warning look. "Come on, Coach, did you see that? He hit Sid in the _head,_ that was on purpose."

"On purpose or not, baseball is not a contact sport," Carp says.

Jack frowns. "Why not?" 

Carp laughs, like he thinks Jack was kidding. "Get him back with a home run," he suggests. "You're up."

Jack climbs out of the dugout still muttering. Sid's talking shit to the first baseman. He's got his helmet off and his hand on his head, over the spot that got hit. 

Sid is annoying to play against. He's made Jack feel like a moron on the ice more than Jack likes to admit. It doesn't mean he should get picked on, though. It's not fair, it's not right. And now Jack is supposed to stand there and swing at a pitch from the same joker who hit Sid, like he doesn't care that Sid got hurt? 

Later, Sid will tell Jack that he was standing way too close. The umpire should have moved him back, probably. Sid will say that Jack looked like a chicken guarding her nest, squatting practically on top of the base. At the time, though, Jack doesn't think he's crowding it at all, and when the ball brushes his knuckles it's the absolute last straw.

The umpire calls, "Ball!" 

Jack looks at Sid, and Sid grins back at him. Jack drops the bat, and he charges the mound.

The pitcher takes off running toward second base, but Jack lengthens his stride. It's not hard to catch up. Jack tackles him before he can make it to the outfield, laying him out with a clean hit. He punches him once, in the face, and the guy yelps like a puppy. 

Jack's sense of honor might have been satisfied with that, but it turns out that even baseball players understand the point of being on a team: the shortstop tackles him off of the pitcher, and then the second baseman joins the fray too. Sid runs over from first base, trailed by the first baseman, and it turns into a real fight.

It's -- maybe, at best -- six against two. Sid’s decent at wrestling, even though he sucks at throwing a punch. Jack gets in a few solid hits, but he mostly throws guys on the ground. At any rate, it doesn’t last long. Carp and the other coach come over with the umpire and they drag everyone apart. 

Jack and Sid are pulled from the rest of the game, as are the pitcher and the shortstop from the other team. "You're lucky you're hockey players at Shattuck," Carp tells them, tight-lipped. He reads them the riot act in the locker room, and then drags them back to the office to watch him while he calls Jack's parents and Sidney's dorm supervisor.

Sid had his hand fisted in the back of Jack's shirt while they were in the locker room. He stands close enough that their hands bump when they're in Carp's office. He keeps grinning at Jack when Carp turns away, wild-eyed and baring his teeth. 

"They're coming to pick you up," Carp says, "You can wait out in the hall."

Outside the office, Sid turns and throws his arms around Jack's neck, going up on his toes to bump their foreheads together. Jack’s arms go around Sid’s waist automatically.

"Holy shit," Sid says, grinning still. "You kicked that guy's ass." 

They didn't get to shower or change, because Carp was busy yelling at them, so they both smell like grass and sweat. Jack's face still feels flushed. It's weird, to be this close, to have Sid so close to him. It feels like something the superhero would do with his girlfriend at the end of a movie, hold her close like this. It seems like they ought to kiss-- he feels like they're _going_ to kiss, that it's inevitable that he'll lean forward and press their mouths together. 

Sid pulls away. He drops down on his heels, and turns so that only one of his arms is over Jack's shoulders. "That was so fucking awesome," he says, smugly.

Jack clears his throat. "Yeah, it was pretty good."

Jack's mom yells at him on the way home, but Jack can't keep his mind on what she's saying. He keeps thinking about that moment, when he was certain that something was going to happen. 

"Pay attention," his mom snaps, and Jack looks over, guilty. 

"Sorry."

"Mr. Carpentier was disappointed in you," his mother says. "I thought you wanted a reference from him for your application to Michigan. What if he won't write it?"

"It won't happen again," he promises. "Carp understands, I know it'll be okay. I'm going to do work in his classroom after school instead of baseball practice." His mom's lips are still thin, so he says, "I really am sorry, mom. The guy-- the pitcher totally hit Sid on purpose."

"Sid can take care of himself, baby," she says, but her expression softens, and Jack knows he's mostly off the hook.

\---

Jack does worry a little. His mom was right; he wants to get a recommendation from Carp. Jack's already committed to Michigan, but he still needs to keep his grades up and his application solid. Carp is one of the teachers that Jack was pretty sure would write a recommendation for him. 

In bed that night, though, Jack can't keep his mind on the fight, or what he's going to do to make up for it. His mind keeps wandering back to the moment outside of Carp's office. Sid's mouth had been an inch away from Jack's. They were practically breathing into each other's mouths. Jack's dick twitches a little in his boxers, remembering it.

He rolls over and pushes his face into his pillow, but he can't block the thought out. Something could've happened. Jack's pretty sure of it. If one or the other of them had done something, moved even a little bit, they would have been kissing. They were practically kissing already. Jack should have gone for it. Maybe Sid would have yanked away -- Jack's never gotten the sense from him that he wants stuff like that -- but maybe he wouldn't have, and they would have kissed. Sid would've pressed closer to him, pushed his hips into Jack's. Maybe, if they hadn't been wearing cups, maybe Jack would have felt that Sid was half-hard. They could have sat on the chair outside Carp's office, together. Maybe Jack could have gotten his hands on Sid's ass, squeezed it--

Jack's pushing his hips down against the mattress, now; his dick is rubbing almost painfully against the fabric of his shorts. He squeezes his pillow in both hands, and keeps his eyes tightly shut. Sid would be a bad kisser, but he'd be desperate, so desperate, Jack's neck craning back under the pressure. Sid would push back against him, his ass working under Jack's hands, and Jack--

Jack moans through gritted teeth, and comes. He shudders through it, his hips jerking irregularly until the fabric chafes against him. 

He rolls over onto his back, then, and looks at the ceiling. 

He just humped the bed like a little kid while thinking about his best friend. 

School tomorrow is going to be pretty awkward, he thinks, and covers his eyes with his hand.

\---

It isn't, though. Jack feels awkward, for sure, but Sid doesn't seem to notice. Sid's his normal self, bright and a little too earnest. They talk about hockey in between classes, like they always do, and eat lunch together. 

Jack's not sure if he's pleased or disappointed. Probably pleased. Sid's decided that he's going away next year, to Rimouski, so it's not like Jack is going to do anything. It's not like Sid's some dreamboat, either. He's an awesome guy. Jack's dick had a moment, that's all. 

Sid hugs him tightly when he sees Jack for the last time, though, on the night before he leaves. "I'm going to miss you," he says, into Jack's neck. Jack turns his face into the side of Sid's head and squeezes him a little tighter.

 

**2**

Jack figures they'll probably lose touch when Sid moves away. He's wrong, though. Sid emails him about once a week. 

His emails are stilted and formal, run-downs of things he's learned at practice or lengthy descriptions of games. After a few of them, Jack thinks that Sid's emailing out of a weird sense of obligation, and he skips emailing back. Sid sends him another email two days later, though. It reads: "Hi Jack! Are you okay? Best, Sidney."

Jack emails him back a full and complete report on Shattuck's newest team members, and Sid's emails go back to their weekly schedule. 

As strange as it seems, it looks like Sid and Jack are going to stay friends. Sid's pretty better at it than Jack is, which helps. He sets it up so they're staying together for the LA prospect camp, for example, when Jack hadn't even thought about it at all. Sid's got a camera crew following him around, but otherwise it feels a little like it did at Shattuck, a kind of easy camaraderie. They hang out and shoot the shit, try to act natural for the cameras. It's fun, in the end.

It's not completely surprising, then, when one of Sid's emails ends with a list of dates and, "Come and train for a week before the combine? I can show you my basement set-up."

Jack laughs himself silly. _I can show you my basement set-up._ What a weirdo.

Doesn't mean Jack isn't amped to go, though. He fistpumps when his mom agrees to foot the ticket to Halifax, and then copies the confirmation email straight over to Sid. 

\---

Jack's waiting for his bag when he hears someone call his name. He turns around, already grinning, and lets Sid crash into him. 

"Hey, Darryl. What's up?" he asks.

"Ugh," Sid says. "Don't call me that." He's grinning, though, and he keeps an arm around Jack's waist. "You still have the same bag?" he asks.

"A better one," Jack says, just as a Michigan blue and gold bag comes down the belt. 

"Oh my god," Sid says, laughing. "You're still planning on that?"

"Yep," Jack says. "Can't wait."

"Of course you can't, you keener." 

Sid tries grabbing Jack's bag, but Jack bumps him aside, swinging it up to his shoulder.

"My dad drove me, but yeah," Sid says. "Over here, these doors."

The car is idling out by the curb. Sid clambers into the front seat, but he almost immediately turns around to talk to Jack. "I can't believe you're here," he says, still grinning.

"Sid, put your seatbelt on," his dad says. He looks in the rearview mirror and smiles at Jack. "Hello, Jack. I'm Troy."

"Hi, Mr. Crosby," Jack says. "I've heard a lot about you."

Sid's dad laughs, and Sid cranes his neck around to roll his eyes. "Really?" he says, snottily.

"Yeah, really," Jack says, trying to mimic Sid's tone. 

Sid giggles. It sounds exactly as it always does, just as terrible as the first time.

Sid and Jack exchanged their training plans by email a month ago, and Sid sent Jack a chart for the week. They do a fast pass through it on the short trip from the airport. It's a pretty good plan, but Jack thinks they should cut the running on Thursday because of Sid's knee injury. Sid digs a pencil out of the center console to write it down. "I'll call my trainer after dinner and see what he thinks," he says.

"It'll be good for you to train with Sid," Sid's dad says to Jack. He sounds faintly surprised. 

"Dad," Sid says. The tips of his ears have gone bright red. "Come on."

"I think it'll be good enough, yeah," Jack says. "I'll try to keep him on his toes."

"Oh look," Sid says drily. "We're here."

Sid shows him through the house quickly when they get there, rushing past the kitchen and bathroom on the way to the basement. It's basically a hockey practice room, although Sid has free weights in the corner and a beat-up exercise bike. They don't have to work out again tonight, according to Sid's schedule, so they dick around instead, shooting at the net and playing catch with the puck on their sticks.

Dinner is quiet. Jack doesn't like eating over at a stranger's house. Parents usually like him, but he always worries that they'll get offended if he puts salt on the pot roast or whatever. At least at the Crosby's they know how to feed a hockey player-- Sid's mom gives Jack thirds without batting an eye. Still, Jack's relieved when they're able to clear out and go upstairs to Sid's room.

It looks almost exactly like Sid's dorm at Shattuck. Jack's pretty sure Sid has the same pictures on his nightstand and taped to his walls. Jack sits down at Sid's desk, swiveling the chair back and forth. It might be the same chair; it looks the same.

Sid flops down on his bed, and then props himself up on his elbows. "I would have had you sleep up here," he says, "but we don't have an air mattress."

"So I have to sleep in the back yard?"

Sid laughs at that, bright and loud. "No! What? No, you have to sleep on the pull-out." He shakes his head, still laughing. "Sleep in the back yard. What?"

"I don't know, you're telling me you don't have an air mattress, I start to expect the worst."

Sid shakes his head, still snickering. "I meant, I wish you could sleep up here. It'd be nice, we could talk before bed or whatever." 

"Yeah, it's too bad. I don't mind, though. Air mattresses are always deflating on me."

"Might be because you're a fatass," Sid says. 

"You're one to talk about fat asses," Jack says, and kicks in the direction of Sid's feet. Sid makes a pissy face at him, but doesn't respond, and they lapse into silence. After a minute, Jack says, "It's good to see you again."

"Yeah," Sid agrees. He grabs the top of one of Jack's feet, wagging it back and forth. Jack opens his mouth to say something, but Sid blurts, "Things have kind of sucked lately." His face goes pinched after he says it, like he's trying to suck the words back in.

"You don't like the team?" Jack says. He tries to stay relaxed, slouching further down in the chair. 

Sid takes a deep breath in and lets it out on a sigh. "It's actually not bad. I'm just tired. The guys on my team are great, and I'm really happy with the success we've had. The fans are amazing, and--"

"Spare me the bullshit," Jack says amiably. "I'm not a reporter."

Sid twists his lips. "There are so many assholes," he says. "One of the fucking d-men for Shawinigan facewashed me during a game, and he didn't even get called for it."

"What the fuck," Jack says. "What's his name?"

"Because you'll go beat him up?"

"I would," Jack says. "That's bullshit."

"It is," Sid says. "It's not just them, though, not just the players. People were saying I wasn't suiting up for games because I was afraid, which-- I wasn't, my coach was, my dad was, but I wasn't. I wanted to go on the ice. You know, you know I wanted to go on the ice." 

Jack makes a face. "You always want to go on the ice."

"Yeah! It's stupid." 

"It's not fair," Jack says. "I wish I could do something."

"I wish you could too." Sid sighs and picks at the surface of his duvet cover. "Do you remember the baseball fight?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"You were crazy, it was great."

That makes Jack laugh, at least. "You didn't do too badly."

"You should've seen yourself, though," Sid says. Jack pushes his toes into Sid's thigh, and they grin at each other a little stupidly. Sid shrugs. "I really am okay. I'm just tired. I want to be drafted already."

"Looking forward to the draft? Come on." Jack nudges Sid's thigh again, and Sid rolls his head to the side to grin at him. 

"Yeah, I know." 

"You're going to go out and buy yourself a limo with your contract, aren't you?" Sid laughs, the sound startled out of him again, so Jack keeps going. "You're going to get a limo with a hockey net on the back of it."

"That's not a bad idea." Sid rolls his head to grin at Jack. "I could have hockey sticks painted on the sides, like racing stripes." 

"And a specialty license plate that says 'I'M 87.'" 

Sid actually cackles at that one, curling up on himself on the bed. It's a dumb joke, but Sid makes it funny, laughing at it like that.

When their giggles peter out again, Sid says, "Thanks."

Jack shrugs. "Whatever, it's cool." He swivels the chair back and forth a bit. "So what're your chances for the post-season?"

It's a good distraction. Sid's team is doing astonishingly well this year, but the London Knights might be better. Sid is, as a result, completely obsessed with improving the team dynamic. 

They talk about Sid's team and the issues with defense for another two hours, until Sid's mom knocks on the door. She pokes her head in and says, "The sofa-bed is set up. You boys should get to sleep sometime soon, I know Sid wanted to get up at six tomorrow."

"Ugh," Jack says, feelingly. He gets to his feet, waving Sid off. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Sleep well," Sid says. 

"You too," Jack says, and pulls the door almost-closed behind him.

After he gets changed for bed, Jack heads out to the living room and settles gingerly on the edge of the sofa bed. It creaks. He gets up, turns out the light, and sits down again, a little faster. The bed creaks again. Jack sighs, and lies down.

He can't get to sleep, of course. There's a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The sofa bed makes a noise every time he shifts his weight. He's hungry, but he doesn't know the Crosby's well enough to go raid their fridge.

He's sort of dozing off when he hears someone bang into something and curse. Jack jerks awake. The bed squeaks underneath him. "Hello?" he calls, softly. 

"Hey," Sid says. "Ow, sorry."

"What's up?" Jack leans over and turns on the light next to the sofa, closing his eyes against the light. Sid is squinting back at him, rubbing at his hip. 

"Walked into the hall table." They squint at each other for a second. "You want something to eat?"

Jack rubs at his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm starving."

Sid makes them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They eat sitting on Jack's bed, talking shit about their workouts and their chances at the draft. The creaking of the bed when they shift their weight seems quieter, now that the room isn't dark and he isn't by himself.

They fall asleep like that, covered in crumbs with the light on. 

Jack wakes up the next morning to Sid's head on his chest and Sid's mom standing next to the bed. "Good morning," she says.

Jack jostles Sid's head. Sid mutters, but pushes himself up easily enough. His hair is all flattened down on one side. "Didn't mean to fall asleep there," he says.

"You should be in your own bed," Sid's mom says. Sid twists up his mouth, pushes himself up, and stumbles back toward his room. "Sorry about that," she says to Jack.

Jack's not sure what to say in response. _It's okay_? _I wanted him there_? He settles on, "We were talking about the post-season."

She laughs. "You boys," she says. "All right, do you want eggs?"

"Yes," Jack says feelingly, and goes to get into his workout gear.

\---

The week passes pretty quickly. It's always fun to work out, and it's especially fun to work out with someone who doesn't mess around or get distracted. Sid seems to get calmer as the week goes by, too, less jumpy and irritable. They push each other -- workouts usually end with one of them claiming that they won -- but it's a good time.

They stay on target, too, and the workout chart is tattered by the end of the week. 

"Is that twenty-five or seventy-five?" 

"Twenty-five."

"Thank God. Seventy-five pushups would be pushing it." Jack gets down and starts, trying to crank them out as fast as he can. He manages the twenty-five in decent time, even after a long workout. He holds himself up at the top of his last push-up and looks over at Sidney. "Should I try for seventy-five?"

Sid gets up off of the bench. He comes closer to Jack, looking like he's considering. Then he turns around and lowers himself to sit on Jack's back.

Jack goes down with a yelp, and Sid cracks up laughing. Jack flails behind himself, trying to whack at Sid's thigh, but Sid keeps laughing. "C'mon, get up, you're killing me."

"Your face!" Sid hoots, but he shifts. He doesn't get up, though, but turns and straddles Jack's waist. "You can't do a pushup with me on your back, eh? What happened to seventy-five?"

Jack wriggles around underneath him, getting himself onto his back. The movement rocks Sid, and he has to lean forward and plant his hands on either side of Jack's head to keep his balance. 

It's been a while, but Jack hasn't forgotten the moment after the baseball fight. It felt like this, he thinks. They're too close again, and Jack's stomach is flopping around. He remembers this feeling. He thinks Sid's looking at his mouth, this time.

Sid's mom chooses that moment to call, "Dinner!" down the stairs. 

They both startle hard. Sid scrambles up off of Jack, nearly kneeing Jack in the balls. Jack rolls over onto his stomach as soon as Sid's up, and he takes a deep, long breath to calm down before he pushes himself up.

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, inanely. 

"I think it's chili tonight," Sid says.

Jack resolutely doesn't look below the waist. Dinner's already going to be weird enough.

\---

That night he thinks that Sid will come downstairs to get a snack. They can talk, and-- what? Jack can kiss him, his mind can carry him that far, but it's hard to imagine beyond that. He's fooled around with some people, but this is _Sid_.

It's moot, anyway. Sid doesn't come downstairs, and Jack leaves the next day.

"See you at the combine," Sid says, seeing him off outside the airport. Jack squeezes him tighter and says, "Good luck at playoffs. Skate circles around them."

 

**3**

The combine is a weird combination of dull and terrifying. Jack has enough interviews that he starts to forget who he's talking to or what he's supposed to be talking about. He has to keep crib sheets in his suit pockets for some of them. Even when he reads the sheets, he still screws up a little bit. He forgets the name of one team's star player, which is embarrassing. He's honest the whole time, though, which is really what should matter.

He's heard Sid interview enough at this point that he knows how it went, but he still seeks Sid out to ask. 

"How was the interview with Dan?"

Sid shrugs. His eyes skim back and forth across the banquet room, watching everyone as they talk and mingle. Jack caught him at exactly the right time; it's the first time all day that Sid doesn't have an interview or a camera on him. "He asked the usual," Sid says. "How am I going to handle the hype, mostly."

"What did you say?"

"You can't prepare to fail, obviously. You have to prepare to succeed. If something does go wrong, I'll have to react to that, and do better. I mean, I'll be playing at a higher level than I ever have before, but I have to face it as it comes, put it all out there. What's important is that I try my hardest and leave everything on the ice."

Jack leans back. "Did you memorize that?"

Sid finally turns to look at him, surprised. "They're the same questions every time," he says. "And it's the right answer."

"I would have stuck with, 'I'll handle it,'" Jack says. Sid grins, shaking his head.

They're quiet together for a long moment, both facing the room. Jack eventually says, "You know, the Stars asked me what my favorite flower was."

Sid turns back towards Jack, his face already lighting up in anticipation. "What'd you say?"

Jack leans in and says, "I said I like a nice big bouquet of go fuck yourselves." 

Sid's giggles pierce through the low hum of people's voices. People turn to look. Jack grins at them all until they turn away again. 

"Did you really say that?" Sid says, when he's calmed down a little bit.

Jack laughs. "No, not even I'm that bad."

"That would have been hilarious." Sid's cheeks are red, and his eyes are wet at the corners. "A nice big bouquet," he repeats, and dissolves into giggles again.

\---

Jack and Sid both survive the interviews, and the camera attention, and the physical testing. They leave on different days; Jack spends a day bumming around in an empty hotel room, feeling ill at ease without Sid's clutter around.

The time stretches out and contracts. It feels like forever until the lottery is announced, and then it's over; it feels like ages until the draft, and then it's tomorrow. 

\---

The Park Plaza in Toronto is the same as the Marriot in LA and the Hyatt in South Bend. The door hisses and thunks shut the same way as every other door in every other hotel. There's the same dark wood furniture arranged around the perimeter of the room, the same scratchy coverlets on the bed, the same lamps, the same window and curtains. Sometimes the view even seems the same, the same city lights in Minneapolis as there are in Dallas. It's comfortingly familiar, at least on a weekend like this one. Their routines are well-set, and in a hotel like this one they can go off without a hitch.

When they get in they just open their suitcases and get changed. They have a dinner to go to at five, so there's no point in trying to unpack. They pull the coverlets off the bed and watch cartoons until it's time to head down.

That means, though, that they sort of have to get things in order when they get back to the room after dinner. After they've both stripped out of their suits and hung them up, though, it seems like too much effort to do any other unpacking. 

"Ugh," Jack says. 

"We have to," Sid says reluctantly. "There's going to be cameras in here over the weekend."

Jack looks longingly at the bed, but he forces himself to stay off of it. He digs around in his suitcase for his toiletry bag instead. "I'm going to put my shit in the bathroom," he says. Sid sighs and picks up his garment bag, probably to hang up his suits.

Jack puts his shaving stuff and his toothbrush out on the counter, and then ducks into the shower to put his shower stuff on one of the inside corners. He puts his toiletry bag under the counter. He puts the bathmat on the floor.

"The towels are pretty big," he calls out. "They might even cover your ass."

"Ha fucking ha," Sid says.

When Jack comes out of the bathroom, Sid's crouched down, lining up his shoes against the wall to the left of the door.

Jack stops, perplexed. "What're you doing?"

"Lining up my shoes."

"That's my spot," Jack says. "That's where I put my shoes."

"No it's not," Sid says.

"Yes, it is." Jack bends down to pick up a pair of them, but Sidney punches him before he gets very far. "What the hell, Sid? That's where I always put my shoes, you know that."

"Whatever, get over it," Sid says. "I always line my shoes up across from the closet."

"No, you don't," Jack says. "You didn't in LA."

"I do now," Sid says irritably.

Jack kicks at Sid's shoes, and Sid punches him again, in the calf. Jack walks around him to sit on the edge of the bed, watching Sid put his shoes where Jack always puts his. It's bullshit. Sid likes his things to be just right in the hotel room, obviously, but he can't just start a superstition that's going to interfere with the way Jack does things. 

He doesn't need the luck anyway, Jack thinks sulkily. He's going to Pittsburgh whether he's lucky or not.

It's a jealous thought, and it irritates Jack that he even had it. "Whatever," he says, and gets up. He'll take care of his other shit. He can figure out where he can put his shoes after Sid's done being a fussy asshole with his.

When he pulls open his gear bag, Jack reels. "Whoa." Their gear always smells a little ripe -- there's no escaping the fact that they sweat in it up to seven times a week -- but if it's been washed recently, it's usually pretty easy to dismiss. He didn't get a chance to wash his gear recently, is the thing, and it smells rancid.

"That's fucking disgusting," Sid says. He's got his shirt pulled up over his nose. "Did you pee on it before you closed it?"

"No," Jack says. "I didn't get to wash it yet."

"Well, close it until you can get them to wash it, you're going to stink up the whole room."

"No."

"What?"

"No," Jack repeats. He stands up and folds his arms. "Not unless you want to move your shoes."

"Don't be such a baby," Sid says. He starts forward to try to close the bag himself, but Jack blocks him. "So you're going to stink up the whole room? You have to sleep here tonight, too, y'know."

"You're right," Jack says, feeling triumphant. He picks up the bag, carries it over to the closet, dumps it on the floor in there, and bangs the door shut. "There. Now it won't stink up the room."

"Are you _kidding me_?" Sid squawks. 

"Whatever, get over it," Jack says, in his best Sid impression. He blocks the closet door when Sid lunges for it, throwing his body between Sid's hand and the latch. Sid shoves him hard enough to get him out of the way; he's able to pull the door open and drag the bag halfway out before Jack tackles him away from it again. 

Sid's squirrelly, and Jack's hampered by all the furniture. Sid nearly cracks his head off of the corner of the entertainment center, and Jack keeps ramming his knee into the sides of their beds. The lampshade on the lamp between the beds nearly gets flattened between Jack's shoulder and the wall. When they finally fall down, it's because Jack's hip clipped the wall and he lost his balance. They land in the narrow space between one of the beds and the wall. Jack ends up on top, with Sid half-twisted beneath him.

Jack gets his hands on Sid's wrists and twists them up behind his back a little, keeping him from pushing himself up. "Let me go," Sid says, wriggling.

"No." Jack drops his forehead to rest on Sid's shoulder. He's breathing hard, and sweating, and he's all of a sudden too tired to even move. Sid writhes around, trying to buck him off, but Jack's heavier than he is, so he doesn't move. 

Sid goes still, and then tugs his wrists in Jack's grip. "Get up," he says.

"No."

"Your dick's pressing into my hip, dude."

"Deal with it," Jack says. He's not even all the way hard, and they both know the rules of wrestling and boners. 

He's hoping they can sit there for a second, but he can't say he's surprised when Sid pipes up again. "Let me lie on my back. My shoulder hurts."

"Don't hit me," Jack says, but he lets go of Sid's wrists. 

Sid turns over onto his back and stretches out. Jack eases over to one side, so he's not lying full-out on top of Sid. Jack should probably get up, but Sid's not yelling at him or anything, and he really is tired. "I'm sorry I put my bag in with your suits," he says.

"Good," Sid says. Jack digs his knuckles into Sid's ribs, and Sid yelps. "What?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "What are _you_ sorry for?"

"Nothing."

Jack grinds his knuckles in harder. "Wrong answer."

"Ugh, ow!" Sid tries to writhe away from him, but he's stopped by the wall. "You're such an asshole, jesus. Fine. I'm sorry that you can't line up your shoes there anymore."

"Nope." Jack props himself up and grabs Sid's jaw with his hand. "Say 'I'm sorry I was a dick.'"

"You're sorry you're a dick," Sid says obediently, but he yelps and says "Okay! Okay! I was a dick!" when Jack applies his knuckles again. "You don't have to be such an asshole," Sid says, but he's smiling.

It feels like another one of their moments. They're crowded together, for one, and their faces are nearly touching. Jack's stomach is flopping around. He's looking at Sid's mouth. Maybe these moments will become a tradition for them, Jack thinks. It could be something Sidney does to prepare for big games, these days. Jack wouldn't put something like that past him, to be honest.

And then Sid kisses him.

Jack startles. Sid pulls back and says, "Okay?"

It takes Jack a moment, but he says, "Yeah. It's fine, Sid."

"Good," Sid says, and kisses him again. 

He seems content to kiss for a while, pressing into Jack's mouth with his tongue and biting at his lips. He keeps his hands on Jack's waist, squeezing whenever Jack does something he likes. His hips move restlessly, though, and he periodically breaks away to pant against Jack's cheek.

Jack finally grabs Sid's thigh and yanks him in, getting their hips pressed together as close as he can manage. Sid makes a soft, high noise in the back of his throat and clutches hard, digging his fingers into Jack's waist. He bites Jack's lip, then his jaw, then-- fuck, his ear.

Jack grunts, the sound embarrassingly loud. He pushes himself up and shifts so his weight is over Sid's, pressing him down into the carpet. Sid bends his knees and spreads them as far as he can in the narrow space they're in. They're lined up like this, cocks pressed together through thin layers of fabric, and Jack can't help the roll of his hips, how he fucks down against Sid. Sid fists his hands in Jack's shirt and pulls hard, twisting the fabric over his shoulders. Jack leans forward and kisses him. It's messy, more open mouths than anything else, but it means Jack can close his eyes, concentrate on the feeling of everything drawing in and up, hot and tight.

Jack would be embarrassed about how fast he comes, if Sid didn't follow soon after him. Sid's face scrunches up like he's in pain, and he shudders against Jack, his forehead pressed against Jack's chest. "Fuck," he says.

"Fuck," Jack agrees. He gets his hand on the edge of the bed and pushes himself up a little, sitting up on his knees. They're both panting and sweaty. The room is a wreck. "Okay then."

Sid sits up on his elbows. His hair is completely disheveled, and his boxers are wet, and he's grinning like a loon. "That was great," he says, completely unselfconscious. "That was exactly what I wanted."

Jack cracks up. "Really? Did you ask Santa?"

Sid punches him in the arm, but he doesn't stop grinning. "I'm sure my parents would appreciate that."

Jack levers himself to his feet and holds his hand out to Sid. He kisses Sid when they're both upright, before pulling away. "I need to change."

"Jizz is gross," Sid agrees. He slides past Jack and heads over to the mess of clothes haloed around his bag. Jack pulls off his own boxers and wads them up, grimacing at the wet feeling. He grabs a new pair and yanks them up, wincing at the feeling of the cotton on his dick.

"Hey," Sid says. Jack looks up. Sid looks ridiculous; he's still got his shirt on, but he's holding a pair of boxers, dick hanging out. It hasn't softened completely yet, and it's still wet with come. He's smiling like a dork. "That was awesome," he says.

"You're such a nerd," Jack says. "Yeah, that was awesome." Sid giggles and goes back to putting on his boxers. "Jesus Christ," Jack says, and goes to wash off his dick.

Sid takes the bathroom after him. Jack turns the television on and then off again, waiting for Sid to come back out. "Nothing on TV," he tells Sid, when Sid finally gets out.

Sid sits down on the edge of Jack's bed, next to Jack's hip. Jack moves over, and pulls on Sid's wrist. "Yeah?" Sid says. "I kick."

"I kick too, we can duke it out."

Jack feels a little stiff, lying there, but Sid seems comfortable. When Jack looks over, he's staring at the ceiling, eyes dreamy and half-focused. "Why'd you kiss me?" Jack asks.

"Because I wanted to?" 

"Yeah, okay. But why now? Why not at Shattuck?" Jack pauses, and then says, "There were a couple of times, before, where I thought something was going to happen."

Sid's quiet for long enough after that Jack's not sure if he's going to answer. "I think," Sid starts. He takes a breath and says, "I can do whatever I want, this weekend."

Jack turns his head. Sid's still staring up at the ceiling. He's loose-limbed and smiling and strangely beautiful. "Whatever you want," Jack repeats. "And you want me."

"Don't let it go to your head," Sid says, smiling. "I guess, yeah, that's what I wanted."

"I'm glad," Jack says. "I don't really get it, but I'm glad."

Sid turns his head to look at Jack. "I think you can get it, though. This is what I've been working for. Every time I got frustrated, I kept thinking about what it would be like, to be here. And now I'm here. I won."

Jack hadn't thought of it that way, but it makes sense to him as soon as Sid says it. As competitive as he is, he can admit that Sid won this round. Everyone else here this weekend is on edge, wondering, and Sid knows where he's going. "So what does that have to do with kissing me?" he asks. 

"I guess I was relaxed enough to do it," Sid says.

"The window's closed after this weekend, huh," Jack says. He pokes Sid in the side, and Sid squirms away, giggling hoarsely. "I'll be shit out of luck, you'll be too tense to mess around."

"Check back in after I win the Cup," Sid says, and laughs.

"Next year," Jack says, and means it.

Sid looks back at the ceiling, like he wants to dodge Jack's words. "I don't know," he says, "Maybe." 

Jack's stomach twists, like he's scared or turned on. He's not sure which one it is. "Sid," he says, and then doesn't know how to finish the sentence. It was better when they were kissing, Jack thinks. He rolls over, impulsively following the thought, and presses his lips against Sid's. 

Sid kisses him back. When Jack pulls back, Sid puts his hand on Jack's neck and tugs him back in for another kiss, and then another one. Jack's feeling strong again, sure of himself like he's supposed to be. 

Sid pulls back, finally, but he keeps Jack close. "You don't need to wait for a Cup," he says, like a secret. "It's you and me, you can-- you can come whenever."

Jack smiles at him, kisses him one last time. "Yeah," he says. He bumps his forehead against Sid's, gently, to see him smile. "Yeah, it's you and me. Fuck the rest of them."

"Exactly," Sid says. 

Jack rolls onto his back again. His lips are buzzing, and his stomach is still twisting around. He feels better, though, sure of himself like he's supposed to be.

It's not like what Sid said changes how things stand. Jack doesn't have the same assurance Sid does; he has no guarantee that he'll go second, or even third. For that moment, though, just a moment, he knows exactly where he's going: he's right behind Sid.


End file.
